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The earth was dark and bare of snow where the shell had hit, the once frozen ground having been warmed by the explosion and tossed up into new formations. The once shallow foxhole had been deepened, made anew by firepower, and what had been before was no longer recognisable.
The trees which had surrounded the small plot of land was broken and bent, splinters spread like confetti in the snow and dirt, some blackened and burnt, and others – and these were the ones he avoided to look at – were still somewhat bloodied.
To him, the entire scene felt surreal, as something that was a fuzzy memory he wasn't fully able to grasp, but at the same time he knew it was there, clear as the faint sunlight that sometimes peeked through the heavy clouds.
It was ironic that the sunshine, which had been severely lacking during the cold winter spent in the forest, would decide to show on that very morning, that some small tendrils would reach out and touch the Earth in the one location where the snow had already been melted. Had he not been so shocked, with his heart feeling as if it had been torn out of his chest, he almost would have laughed at that damn irony, just as he knew he would have had his friend been there with him. Had Skip been by his side, the way he had during the majority of the past few years, he knew there would have been laughter about that damn irony. Laughter that would have been deemed inappropriate with the events that had taken place, but yet there in a try to brighten the mood.
Eyes flickered across the bare dirt once more, taking in the scene as he listened to the men moving around him, trying their best to continue moving in the little light and the little peace they had, despite the losses that had shaken the company during the past days.
Skip and Penkala hadn't been the only ones lost, Malarkey was all too aware of that, however much his mind and heart was focused on the scene before him, where only hours before his friends had been taking refuge from the falling German artillery. There had been others, both lost and wounded, and to him that only gave the pain another thorn. There had been so many since they had first reached France, and time hadn't lessened the number of victims.
A deep breath was dragged into his lungs as he crouched down, bare hands running over the earth, almost as if expecting there to be something – anything – that could take the edge off the pain. The bodies were long since gone, having been transported out as soon as it had been possible, and he knew that with them gone, there wasn't supposed to be anything of worth left. This was no one's last resting place anymore, and so there wasn't supposed to be anything he'd want to see there, beside the torn earth and snow. But he had still gone there, and now it was hard to move away.
He hadn't been there when his friends had been taken away, their bodies having been broken and bent in a way that he knew would have made them unrecognisable. He hadn't wanted to see that, hadn't wanted that to be his last image of them both, and so he had stayed away, huddled in his own foxhole as the night had turned to morning and the icing cold hadn't been as burning anymore.
His movements had been slow and sluggish when he had finally pushed himself off of the frozen ground, and his steps had been heavy and without their usual spring as he had crossed the snow towards the one place where the snow hadn't yet created a thick coating.
He hadn't wanted to see it, had already guessed what it would look like when he arrived, but still there had been an almost eagerness in him that had wanted to see for himself whether the rumours had been true or not. Whether there had actually been a shell hitting the foxhole containing his two closest friends, or whether it had all had been a horrifying nightmare.
He was still staring at the upturned earth in confusion and disbelief, even when his hands were running through it, grasping for anything that could keep him steady, as if that would help him understand.
It was not until the torn rosary was slipped into his hands that his focus shifted, his eyes falling to the sooty beads and burnt iron cross that was suddenly laying in his palm. At first, he barely understood what he was looking at, but then the memories came flooding back, and the small piece was clutched in his hands and brought to his lips, as a broken prayer was whispered from them.
Skip's rosary had always been with him, ever since the first day Malarkey had ever seen him, and so to suddenly have it in his hand, broken and torn like its owner, struck a nerve. It was almost as if it was the very representation of his friend and what had happened to him, and for a moment he almost threw it aside before he thought better of it.
His eyes shifted to the torn earth once more before he pushed himself back onto his feet, the rosary still clutched tightly in his hand as he turned to leave, ignoring the eyes resting upon him. He knew what they were all already thinking, of the things they wanted to say, and he was glad no one had yet spoken of the events that had occurred with him. They understood grief – all of them by now, even the men who had only seen a few days of combat – and they knew better than to try and make anyone speak about it.
Because speaking didn't help. Only time did.
And soon time would once make the unmelted snow and thawed earth frozen once more, and it would be as if the shell had never exploded. As if a once neat and shallow foxhole hadn't been deepened by firepower, and lives lost. Time would erase all traces of the deaths of Skip Muck and Alex Penkala, and all that would be left would be the torn rosary in Don Malarkey's pocket and the memories of their laughter...